


A Short Discourse on Kindness

by imochan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:25:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2717114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imochan/pseuds/imochan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/927753">A Short Discourse on Cruelty</a>.  Three verses. </p><p>(originally posted 2005)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Short Discourse on Kindness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheafrotherdon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/gifts).



> For [](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/)**sheafrotherdon**! Cate, my snugglewump, some fluff for you!

Title: A Short Discourse on Kindness  
Author: Imochan  
Pairing: Sirius/Remus  
Rating: PG13  
Summary: Companion to [A Short Discourse on Cruelty](http://archiveofourown.org/works/927753). Three verses.  
Notes: For [](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/profile)[**sheafrotherdon**](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/)! Cate, my snugglewump, some fluff for you!

Exhibit A. In desperation.

In apology, Sirius offers him the easy pieces of interaction – a pass the potatoes kind of way. It's in the crooked wrist of the hand that holds the bowl, the forced nonchalance of how he holds the door open, the wordless way that he hands Remus his gloves or scarf or jumper when it's autumn. It's the heavy shag of a black dog's fur, under Remus's fingers, against his naked belly, in his mouth, when he wakes after a demented, monstrous slice of memory. Remus will fall asleep on his own bed, half-finished essay smearing ink on his cheek - and in the morning, the greater insult would be instead to question how it got to the required five feet, after all.

Sirius ignores it, as if it would cause him the deepest harm, siphoning his very vitals – a quick hand, a killer grin, slippery black hair, a skewed tie knot and an untucked shirt – to let their eyes meet when Remus would rather say thank you, after all. It will go on, until Sirius Black Decides, he knows. That retribution is somehow all measurable, quiet payments in one's head, how the restive thief sleeps at night without terrors, how a Prince says that he is sorry for it all, in legers of love that he will label Good Deeds and Well, Now! Job Well Done, Indeed.

 

Exhibit B. Out of necessity.

He smells blood, vinegar-sharp, spearing up into his sinuses. It makes him wake, makes his ears prick, makes his tail thump hard against the floor as he arches his back. It's dark in the room, where he blinks sharp eyes, shakes his furry body with a ruffle-snuff-snort - _blood_ , he thinks again, and follows the pinch in his nose to a corner of the wood-ragged, creaking building.

The body is piled under a ratty blanket that smells like rodents and the insides of old jam cupboards, but it is warm, still, however shaking. He nudges into it with his nose, smells the sluggish copper stronger here, the musty covering of sweat and tears, salt on his tongue when he rasps it over the body's shoulder. It shudders under him, makes a sound like a hurt animal, and he whines.

 _Pa'foot,_ , it says, and he presses a damp nose to its neck, huffing warm into its skin, giving it a heartbeat to breathe with. Good, and obedient, smart little thing, it wraps both arms around his neck and tugs, taking warmth. Thin, white fingers press into his ruff, his stomach, kneading. He hunkers down onto his paws, and sets to licking, quietly, evenly, cleaning the taste of blood and salt from the bare body, with an instinct, a mother tongue.

There is a rustle of leaves down the stair, the chitter of a mouse under the bed, the whine-whickering call of a morning dove begging to be chased into the sky, making his tail twitch. But he belongs here, he knows, for now. Devotion commands in the pale, knitted brow of a body that he knows so well, it needs no name but love.

 

Exhibit C: Unconscious volition.

The tea is a little weak, but milky, and hot. Sirius scraped the bottom of the sugar bowl for it. I scraped the bottom of the sugar bowl, for you, he thinks, frowning at Remus's softened face, still shaped like the first sigh of dreaming. You'd better bloody appreciate this, he thinks, and holds the tea, awkwardly, with both hands, while Remus sleeps.

Remus is stupid, he thinks, to let himself collapse on the couch, in the middle of bloody fucking winter with no bloody fucking meat on his bones and a moth-bit blanket over his knees. He sleeps well enough, though, he thinks, considering.

The three long scars on Remus's face make Sirius grin – he knows the morning that Remus woke with them, swallowing his long nose in bruises and thick, congealed, sluggish blood. When James suggested stitches, and Remus threw the nearest piece of ceramic at his head, they let it be, and Sirius resists the urge to call them _dashing_.

When he sits at the edge of the couch, Remus snuffles into the pillow, and readjusts his limbs in a sleepy, oblivious way. So, thinks Sirius, and puts the tea down, on the rug, where Remus can reach it when he wakes. So this is how Black and Lupin Spend A Sunday: making tea out of a dented kettle and scraping the bottom of the sugar bowl and watching your mate sleep off the worst of the world, as if it were easy to do.

And him, dreaming, thinks Sirius, and tugs the blanket to Remus's chin, stupid, corrupting, beautiful boy.

  


References:

See also under: **[Cruelty](http://archiveofourown.org/works/927753), Love.**


End file.
